He had been smiling at first because Miller was Miller, and refusing him in public was not something teammates did.
Now Reyes found himself staring at George’s lapel, noticing how carefully the old man had fastened that pin.
Not decorative. Not careless. Centered, cleaned, worn.
His own grandfather had kept medals in a drawer lined with an old towel and never explained them.
Reyes remembered touching one as a boy and being told, gently but firmly, to put it back.
Miller did not share that memory. Or maybe he did and had spent years learning to bury it.
“History?” Miller scoffed. “You came into our space wearing costume jewelry and expect a salute?”
George’s hand moved at last to the pin, not covering it, only resting beside it.
“This was given to me by a man who never got the chance to grow old enough to be mocked.”
